


as they take your breath

by doctorkaitlyn



Series: tumblr fics & ficlets. [71]
Category: Preacher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Relationships, Breathplay, Complicated Relationships, F/F, Face-Sitting, Strap-Ons, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-08 00:36:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7736236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/pseuds/doctorkaitlyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tulip has always liked walking on the wild side, balancing with just a few toes over the line, moving forward while the too-rational part of her mind screams, in blinking red letters, <i>danger danger danger.</i>  She chases adrenaline like an addict, knows no better feeling than that of her heart pounding against her rib cage like it's trying to escape and physically yank her away from doing something moronic.  </p>
<p>But while her heart is <i>definitely</i> pounding, which is usually a sign of something great, part of her thinks that she's about to cross over the line separating recklessness from pure stupidity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	as they take your breath

**Author's Note:**

> written for Femslash Revolution's Summer Scorcher event! Donnie/Betsy is mentioned but for the purposes of this fic, they're in an open marriage. 
> 
> title from Jessica Kill by Sum 41.

Tulip has always liked walking on the wild side, balancing with just a few toes over the line, moving forward while the too-rational part of her mind screams, in blinking red letters, _danger danger danger._ She chases adrenaline like an addict, knows no better feeling than that of her heart pounding against her rib cage like it's trying to escape and physically yank her away from doing something moronic. 

But while her heart is _definitely_ pounding, which is usually a sign of something great, part of her thinks that she's about to cross over the line separating recklessness from pure stupidity. 

It's yet another sweltering night in Annville and she's nose to nose with Betsy Schenck, so close that their whiskey breath is mingling together. The frame of her Impala seems to be shrinking in towards her, forcing them even closer together. Betsy's hand is curled tight around Tulip's knee, just below the hem of her skirt, and the neckline of her shirt has slipped down, revealing the swell of breasts barely contained by a lace-trimmed bra. She still smells like the bar that Tulip found her trolling in, like cigarettes and beer and cheap perfume, and it's a combination that shouldn't work, not in the least, but Tulip still finds herself wanting to find where the smell is strongest, so that she can bury her face there.

"There's nothing to worry about," Betsy murmurs, sliding Tulip's skirt up a few inches. "Donnie ain't comin' home tonight. Chris neither. Nobody's gonna interrupt us." 

"You sure of that?" Tulip asks with a raised eyebrow, glancing through the window at the Schenck's house. The windows are all dark and the driveway is empty, but if there's any chance that Donnie is going to stumble home, reeking of booze and meat and the whorehouse, Tulip is kicking Betsy out of her car. She'll get herself off before letting him interrupt them.

"Completely. Besides," Betsy adds in a low, heated murmur, almost as an afterthought, "we have an open marriage." 

Tulip isn't quite sure if she really believes that, deep down; mainly, she believes that Donnie Schenck would consent to an open marriage about as much as she believes that her uncle will sober up one of these days. But she's been wrong about these things before and one look at Betsy's hooded eyes and parted lips tells her that, open marriage or not, Betsy isn't going to back down.

And, well, backing down isn't in Tulip's nature, pure and simple.

"Alright," she says, tucking her leg over Betsy's hips and wrapping one hand in the thick brown locks cascading over her shoulder, "what are we waitin' for then?"

It takes them nearly half an hour just to get out of the car once their lips finally touch. If they were maybe twenty minutes outside of town or parked on the bare expanse of land behind the church, Tulip wouldn't bother to pull away. She'd simply toss Betsy's clothes onto the back seat and dive right in. But even at one o'clock in the morning, the streets of Annville are dotted with teenagers and drunks (and those damn creepy mascots in their costumes) and the last thing Tulip wants to do is have to pull some kind of plausible excuse out of her ass if they get caught. 

When they finally slide from the front seat, sweat slicked and disheveled, they leave behind Betsy's bra and Tulip's panties, which are already a write-off. The walk up the narrow concrete strip leading to the front steps is a rambling one; they drift from one side of the walkway to the other, lips brushing together, fingers attempting to slide underneath skirts without getting in the way. It takes so long for Betsy to fumble her keys out of her purse that Tulip is just tempted to break through the glass and unlock it herself. Finally, just as she starts skimming the lawn for any heavy lawn ornaments, Betsy palms the keys with a jingle and thrusts them into the lock violently. 

The sound of it tumbling open is possibly one of the greatest Tulip has ever heard, at least since she's come back to Annville.

The door opens directly into the kitchen and Betsy only has to take a few steps to flick on the light over the stove. There's a fairly sturdy looking table in the middle of the room and lots of available counter space, but when Betsy glances around the room and raises an eyebrow, the question silent but obvious, Tulip shakes her head and pushes one hand under Betsy's blouse. 

"Is a bed an option?"

"My favorite option," Betsy replies, with a sharp grin that remains in place as Tulip slides her hand up further and thumbs at one peaked nipple. Betsy raises one hand and lays it on top of Tulip's, pressing them both to her breast. When Tulip pinches instead, rolling the nub hard between her thumb and index finger, the grin wavers and softens around the edges, the way that her harsh slash of red lipstick softened the more they drank and the more they kissed.

" _Now_ you've got it," she says, taking Tulip's other hand and yanking her out of the room. 

&.

Tulip does _not_ expect Betsy to volunteer to get her off first. Yet almost as soon as they hit the bed (on Donnie's side, easy enough to tell from the cologne and aftershave smells emanating from the pillow), Betsy grabs her by the hips and pushes Tulip's skirt up to her waist, bunching the fabric between her fingers. 

"Come here," she says, lying back against the pillows. Consciously or not, her tongue flicks against her lips and Tulip raises an eyebrow before going along with it, sliding up the bed so that her knees are braced above Betsy's head. She wraps her hands around the headboard for balance but before she can lower herself down, Betsy arches up and drags the tip of her tongue up to Tulip's clit. 

Less than ten minutes later, one of Tulip's nails snaps on the headboard as she comes hard around Betsy's fingers and tongue. It feels like being punched in the gut, having the air knocked from her; she'd been expecting clumsiness and probing fingers, but she got someone who obviously knew exactly what they were doing, who'd perfected it to a science. Tulip pushes her hair away from her eyes and glances over at the nightstand on Donnie's side of the bed, where there's a picture of the Schenck family propped against a book on the Confederacy. 

Maybe they _do_ have an open marriage. 

"Jesus," Tulip mutters, a drop of sweat falling into her eye. She drops one of her hands to Betsy's hair and tugs a little, experimentally. Betsy responds by pressing her tongue _hard_ against Tulip's clit, and the muscles in her thighs jump almost violently. 

"You ain't gonna fall asleep on me, are you?" Betsy asks, the words muffled puffs of warm air against Tulip's hot core. 

"No," Tulip snorts. "Not 'till after you're all done." She slides down some so that her knees are tucked around Betsy's ribs, but she keeps her fingers wound in the thick strands of Betsy's hair. 

"Good," Betsy says with another grin. The remains of her lipstick are smeared around her mouth, lips slicked with something else entirely. She scoots over towards her side of the bed, taking Tulip with her, and opens the top drawer of her small nightstand. Tulip cranes over to look, squinting against the light being thrown by Betsy's lamp. 

The straps are all tangled together, but Tulip knows a harness when she sees one. 

&.

She feels like her heart is about to _burst_ from her chest. The rest of her clothes are scattered across the floor and sweat dots her body, sliding down her forehead and into her eyes. The cheap straps of the harness shift against her skin and itch something wicked, but she doesn't dare stop to scratch. 

She's on her knees between Betsy's spread legs, snapping her hips forward as smoothly and quickly as she can manage, hands wrapped around Betsy's pale thighs for leverage. Betsy is either enjoying it or is one hell of an actress; the noises she's making put the girls at the whorehouse to shame and her head is tilted back, pressed into the pillow, exposing the long line of her throat. But not once does she reach for her clit; her hands stay beside her undulating hips, anchored in the twisted sheets. 

Tulip assumes that Betsy simply wants things to last, is putting off the grand finale. But her thighs are starting to tense and ache and the itch is almost too annoying to ignore. So she takes matters into her own hands, sliding one hand down Betsy's thigh, past the crux of her leg and hip, to the swollen bud of flesh peeking out from between dark curls. 

Almost as soon as she brushes one fingertip over it, Betsy grabs her around the wrist and pulls her closer, yanks her hand up until it's hovering over her arched neck. 

"Do it," she says through her teeth, closing the space between Tulip's palm and her throat. "As hard as you want." 

With that, Tulip _plummets_ from recklessness into pure danger. 

"What?" she asks, hips stuttering and slowing. "You serious?"

" _Yes_ ," Betsy hisses, glaring up at Tulip underneath her mascaraed eyelashes. While Tulip's hips continue to slow, Betsy makes up for it by rolling her own, the muscles in her thighs visibly flexing underneath her skin. "C'mon Tulip. _Do it_."

Betsy's tone is uncomfortably like a goad, crawling underneath Tulip's skin and itching worse than the straps of the harness. So she plasters a smirk across her face and tightens her fingers, minutely at first, and then harder, pushing up and in at the same time. Betsy's pulse leaps underneath her thumb and a strangled groan falls from her lips. 

"Faster," she gasps, sliding her heels around Tulip's thighs and pulling her forward. 

Tulip gives her what she wants, trying not to lose her rhythm while simultaneously trying not to over-tighten her grip on Betsy's throat. The rational part of her mind is a mess of screaming klaxons and flashing lights, all signalling _danger danger danger_ , but there's something about it, a sense of power throbbing through her fingertips, that keeps her from letting go. 

Her internal sense of time is a little scrambled, but it only feels like a few moments pass before Betsy comes, fingers pressed hard against her clit, gasping for breath, heartbeat thudding hard against Tulip's fingers. Tulip waits a few moments for Betsy to go limp and sag back against the pillows. Only then does she drop her hand and slide the strap-on out, already reaching for the buckles of the harness. 

"We are never doing that again," she says, looking at Betsy's throat. It might just be the shadows, but Tulip is pretty sure that there's going to be a bruise there, a dark spot in the shape of her splayed fingers. "Not like that. You hear me?" 

"Sure," Betsy says, voice roughened and distant, legs splayed open, lips turned up in a half-smile. "Whatever you say, Tulip." 

"I fucking mean it!" Tulip snaps, ripping the harness away and tossing it on the floor. "Do you do that with every person you bring home? 'Cause you're gonna get your ass killed." 

"I ain't stupid," Betsy replies with a glower. "You don't wanna do it again? Fine by me. Get out of my damn house." With that, her eyes slip closed and no matter how long Tulip glares at her, they don't open again. 

Finally, Tulip settles for cursing under her breath as she gets off the bed. She grabs her clothes from the floor and yanks them on hard enough to rip a seam in her tank top. 

"Whatever," she mutters, shooting one last glare at Betsy, unabashedly naked, limbs spread across the bed. "I ain't comin' back. Find someone else to choke you." 

&.

Barely two weeks pass before she finds herself back in Betsy's bed. This time, she refuses to even touch Betsy's throat until she picks a goddamn safe word.

She picks Quincannon. Tulip rolls her eyes and fucks her anyways.

Four times after that, they switch from using Tulip's hand to using one of Donnie's belts.

The time after _that_ , Tulip wonders just how much longer she'll be able to pretend that the next time will be the last time.

**Author's Note:**

> as always, I can be found on [tumblr.](http://banshee-cheekbones.tumblr.com/) :)


End file.
